


Love is an abstract thing

by 91bil



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Homare writes some poems, M/M, Pining, unbeta’d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27469687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/91bil/pseuds/91bil
Summary: Love is a fickle thing that has capitvated Homare Arisugawa for three hundred and eighty four days and counting.[ Homare writes some poems while thinking about a certain troupe member. ]
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Mikage Hisoka
Comments: 3
Kudos: 60





	Love is an abstract thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smashleyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smashleyed/gifts).



**_I saw your face_ **

**_And all at once_ **

**_I fell in love._ **

Love is a fickle thing, Homare thinks, brushing a strand of hair from Hisoka’s face.

Love is a fickle thing that has capitvated Homare Arisugawa for three hundred and eighty four days and counting. Sometimes he thinks he gets it, composes poems in its name, sings it to the world, places another bounce in each step he takes, and other times, he doesn’t, so his page remains empty, and his words remain unsaid, and his gait is just a tad bit slower. It’s all so complicated. Too complicated, and too abstract, even for him. 

He doesn’t get it. 

But as he gazes upon the sleeping face of his fellow troupe member, he gets it well enough. He gets it enough to know that this feeling in his heart is love, and he’s in trouble for it. 

**_Ephemeral, lovely, beautiful, soft. My agape._ **

He sets this poem aside too, tucking it away in a book for his eyes only. 

He revisits them from time to time. Sifts through them in his downtime, rereads the words he could never say aloud. Not with Hisoka in the room. Not with it all so unrefined. Hisoka deserved better, and he had better, he just couldn’t get it out. He could never get it out. 

He can’t find the right metaphor. Can’t find the right ways to describe Hisoka, who is so simple, so unrefined, and so beautiful. 

Hisoka Mikage is beautiful. 

The thought makes him laugh as he watches Hisoka turn in his sleep, leaving the warmth of Homare’s lap for the bed instead. Homare stood up carefully and left Penpen in his stead, watching Hisoka latch onto it like a lifeline. He washed it for him earlier today. He hoped he did it right this time. 

The old pillow still sat in their room. It was unused, but it served as a reminder. He didn’t know what sort of reminder exactly, but it remained nonetheless, and he used it when he felt fit. It never really felt fit. 

Hmm...”He glanced out the window. “The night is still young...”

He glanced towards Hisoka. Fast asleep. That’s good. 

Hisoka had been sleeping a little less recently. It wasn’t the most noticeable difference, just two less naps a day, but it was still a concern to Homare, who knows how tired he was all the time. Though troublesome to most, Homare knows the weight that Hisoka holds on his shoulders, and knows the courtesy of rest is the least he could provide for him. 

**_Bratty, catty, meow, meow_ **

**_Sharp claws scratch as sharp teeth bite_ **

**_But for you_ **

**_I’d withstand it all_ **

He reaches over to pat Hisoka’s head and sets a marshmallow on the pillow in the off chance he wakes up before Homare returned. It was one of the good ones, taken directly from Azuma’s stash. A reward for the effort Hisoka has been putting into rehearsals lately. 

He gathers a book and pen and slips out of the room, shutting the door as quietly as he could behind him. He should really look into getting the squeaky hinges replaced. 

Fix the door hinges, get new sheets, since Hisoka expressed discomfort once before, replenish the supply of eggs in the kitchen for Omi and Tsumugi both, look into the upcoming sports festival his publisher mentioned in passing....

He continues to add to his list, scribbling down note after note. This is what love is, he thinks, reading over the ways he can dote upon the members of his troupe. It’s the closest he could possibly describe the feeling, but as his mind wanders back to one Hisoka Mikage, he wonders if he’s had it wrong all along. 

He loves his troupe members, but his love for Hisoka runs deeper. 

**_In my busiest hours,_ **

**_I look to you,_ **

**_and realise_ **

**_I’m never too busy_ **

**_for you._ **

He’s never too busy for Hisoka.

If Hisoka needed him, he would drop everything to rush to his side. This, of course, has limits, but as he paces the courtyard of the dorms, he finds the limits becoming as absurd as the rest of his thoughts. He wouldn’t fly across the world, but he’d disrupt a meeting with his publisher, and drive across the country. Even that seemed absurd. 

Hisoka was absurd. 

**_Absurdity, arbitrary, arabella, arabesque_ **

**_The absurdity of your life leaves me bereft_ **

A far cry from his usual genius. He crosses it out, and tries again.

**_Hisoka_ **

**_Irrational_ **

**_Simply irritating_ **

**_Overly quiet_ **

**_Killer of marshmallows_ **

**_A thrum in my heart._ **

He crosses that out, too, now leaning against the tree. Acrostics have never been his thing, anyway. 

**_Should the sea converge and Pangea return once more,_ **

**_Stay with me,_ **

**_my love._ **

“Ugh!” He ripped the pages out of his book, finding himself more fed up with each new poem. It was all so ugly, conveying none of his true feelings, showing no beauty in their forms. It was a writer’s block, but one he had no confidence in overcoming. Hisoka Mikage was unwritable. 

He jots that in the margins of the book. Dozens of pages contain small notes, little reminders he’s observed about his roommate. Hisoka Mikage is unobservable, insatiable, incorrigible, incapable, and irresistible. 

He’s irritating, too. He’s infuriating and inspiring, and Homare is fed up with his presence lingering in every word he writes. 

So he tears out those pages too, and resolves to discard them in the trash. He stands up to do so, and is met with a small huff, and a familiar voice. 

“You’re noisy, Arisu,” His muse murmurs. “You’re gonna wake someone up.”

He jumps.

“Hisoka! What on Earth are you doing out here? Did I not provide you with everything you required to sleep?”

He places his hand on his hip and waits for a response, watching as Hisoka slowly looked at the ground. Before Homare could stop it, he had picked up a poem, smoothing it out to read the messy print on the paper. Homare could just barely make out that it was his poem on absurdity.

“Don’t think you can ignore my—!”

“This sucks.” Hisoka mumbles, looking back to Homare. He seemed unbothered by Homare’s irritated disposition. “I like your other poems better.”

“Why you...!” Homare recoils, unprepared for the criticism. Hisoka had always had such an unrefined mind. How could he possibly know what a good poem was!? “I’ll have you know that—.”

Hisoka cuts him off once more, looking up at the sky. “To my moon,” He starts, and Homare stops. 

“How do you know that poem?” He asks. It goes unanswered. 

“I gaze upon you every night. You lay so gently, so close, and so far all the same.”

“Hisoka. Where did you read this?” He steps closer now. Hisoka takes a step back, his gaze now fixated on Homare. 

“You are the moon and I am the sun, always revolving around you, always giving you space to shine. I would give it all up for you, and you alone.” 

Homare turns away, gathering up the rest of the discarded poems, unable to continue to listen. The words Hisoka spoke were familiar; a poem he penned months ago. He thought he hid it well. He wonders if there are more poems Hisoka had seen. In the light of the moon overhead, Hisoka slowly comes to a stop, falling silent as he watched. 

And then, after a while, he says, “You didn’t finish it. You crossed out the rest.”

“There was no need to pursue such an insufficient poem. If the muse for it strikes again, I shall finish it, but not a moment before.” He replied. It was a half truth. His muse was always there, but the words never came.

He watched as Hisoka frowned, and realised he truly didn’t understand it. He was never one to understand emotions, but Hisoka was an enigma he deemed unsolvable, even to the best detectives.

“I want to read it. You should finish it. And the rest of them.” He shrugs. Homare wants to throttle him, but refrains, instead watching as he shuffles closer. He holds out his hand, and instinctively, Homare does too.

“I’m going back to bed. Stop being loud. We have practice in the morning.” Hisoka presses something into his hand and turns, leaving before Homare can chastise him for being awake, and process what had just transpired.

“Honestly!” Homare exclaims, watching as he leaves. “I don’t know what to do with him.” 

He looks down at his hand. In it was the very marshmallow he left on Hisoka’s pillow, untouched, saved for a small nibble on the top. It’s absurd, and exactly as he expected from such a muse.

He lets out a sigh, and sits down again, ready to pen another verse. 

**_To my moon,_ **

**_There are so many things I want to say to you. So many words I want to use._ **

**_My feelings for you are a fickle thing. I don’t understand them myself._ **

**_You are beautiful._ **

**_You are simple, and refined, and yet irritating all the same, and I find myself rolling my eyes at you more than you know._ **

**_You make my life difficult, and yet, as I gaze upon your sleeping face, I realise there is nothing better that I could do._ **

**_You are my moon, and I am your sun. I relish every eclipse we spend together._ **

**_You ask for a poem yet disregard all that you hear. This will be my last, for I will not spoil you more than I have, and I will look to my heart for the words that have evaded every stanza thus far._ **

**_Keep shining, my moon, and rest well._ **

**_I’ll be here in the morn, and then, together, we can understand the intricacies of love._ **


End file.
